


Waiting for the Rain

by downdeepinside



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Family, M/M, Mycroft's Umbrella, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Past Rape/Non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-02
Updated: 2014-02-02
Packaged: 2018-01-10 23:22:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1165812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/downdeepinside/pseuds/downdeepinside
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Behaviors present in the acute stage of rape trauma syndrome can include numbness, paralyzing anxiety, an obsession with cleanliness, insomnia, panic attacks, and a heavy reliance on coping mechanisms. The subsequent outward adjustment stage may last from several months to many years after a rape. </p>
<p>Mycroft Holmes is nineteen when it happens; Sherlock is just twelve.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waiting for the Rain

**Author's Note:**

> Please be aware RAPE/NON-CONSENSUAL SEX is the entire premise of this story. It is heavily referenced and discretion is advised by the author.
> 
> My descriptions of the act are vague, but I wanted to mark if 'M' to be safe. If any of the issues in this story have affected you personally than I am incredibly sorry.
> 
> Furthermore, this story is just an idea I had while walking alone at night with my own personal coping mechanisms. It's ending is ambiguous to say the least. It is not a happy story. You've been warned.

 “Sherlock?”

The consulting detective mumbles into the sofa cushion and then rolls over, examining John with half a sleepy eye.  “Hmfm?” he growls, reaching a hand up to swipe uselessly at an errant curl that bounces straight back from whence it came.

John holds out the mobile a little hesitantly, afraid of what angering (a clearly exhausted) Sherlock might lead to, before sighing; “It’s Mycroft.” Sherlock scowls and turns his head to bury it back in the chair, “Something about his umbrella?”

The younger man pauses for a moment, before jumping up so quickly he sways dangerously close to the floor. He pinches the bridge of his nose and then nods, holding a hand out for the phone and vanishing shortly after to his bedroom.

***

Mycroft hates London. The people are rude, the cars never move, the lights are always on, and the university is packed full of ‘the popular kids’ he hated at school. He wishes he could have stayed in Sussex. Sussex is nice. It’s quiet. You can see the stars. Or perhaps Norfolk. He could’ve gone to uni in Norfolk.

Then again, what sort of politician lives in Norfolk? England’s been a centralised unit since the 1800s, for Christ’s sakes. If you want to get somewhere, if you want to have a position of power (and Mycroft’s known for a long time now that he sure _does_ want a position of power) then you’ve got to make your way in London. And if you’re going to make your own way there you’re pretty much expected to study there. And if you’re going to study in London then, of course, you’re going to attend Imperial College and take Politics with International Relations.

Of course.

He hates London. But it’s necessary. It’s all very necessary.

***

The first time John meets Mycroft, it’s on a somewhat dreary day in London. The man has an umbrella with him and, really, he doesn’t think anything of it. The next time, its night and John’s tired (not to mention a little high from the adrenalin and thrill of the chase) so the politician could, in all honesty, be dressed in a pigeon onesie and John wouldn’t have noticed.

It’s isn’t until the third time that he meets the man he wonders if the politician’s relationship with his umbrella is perhaps a little strange.

“What’s that about?” he asks Sherlock, shortly after the fourth of fifth run in with the man’s brother.

The other man blinks, hands tracing the red mark some too-tight handcuffs left on his wrist. After a pause he pursues his lips and looks up to John, his eyes alarmingly sharp. “What’s what about?”

John gestures to the skid marks left by Mycroft’s car and rolls his sore shoulders, “The umbrella.” Sherlock’s posture tightens minutely, “He’s always got an umbrella. It’s the middle of June, for Christ’s sakes.”

The detective frowns, his eyes flickering around the scene surrounding them.

“He’s,” Sherlock swallows and closes his eyes briefly before visibly shaking himself and shoving his hands into his coat pockets, “His suits cost more than the entire contents of our flat put together. God forbid he gets them even the littlest bit damp, hmm?”  

John snorts and folds his arms, nodding towards the DI arguing with Donovan. “Fair enough: What do you say we get out of here before Greg drags us in for statements?”

Sherlock smiles, and no more is said on the matter.

***

In Sussex, at night, the streets are pitch black and seemingly empty. If you’re walking home late the cobbled streets mean anyone can hear you approaching. Likewise, you can hear anyone approaching you.

In London, it’s different. The streets are always lit, although on a night like this one it’s still gloomy. You will rarely – you will _never_ – find yourself completely alone on a street. There’s a constant thrum of noise, footsteps and quiet conversations bumbling to and fro. If someone were to approach you – if someone were to come up behind you with a small razor in their left hand and several needles in their right pocket - you wouldn’t notice. You might think it’s just another student, like yourself, eager to get home quickly. You wouldn’t know what was happening. Not until he was directly behind you. Not until you felt the prod of something sharp and insistent in the small of your back.

You wouldn’t notice someone coming for you until their knife was digging into your back and their hot breath was tickling your ear and politely asking you to “Step this way, pretty boy.”.

***

It’s raining and John’s been at the clinic all day (in desperate need of a shower and an early night) when he arrives home to hushed voices, heavy breathing, and a dripping aristocratic umbrella perched by the door. He closes the front door quietly but can’t help the creaking sound the stairs emit as he starts his way up them. One particularly loud creak causes the voices to cease immediately, although the dripping of the umbrella continues and the breathing (if anything) intensifies.

John freezes, as if he’s been caught with his hands in mum’s custard, before deciding he’s acting ridiculously and carrying on up the stairs. He can hear Sherlock’s voice, gradually becoming louder and louder, before the breathing stills and the scratch of a chair against the wooden floorboards upstairs can be heard.

“Myc-” Sherlock’s baritone calls out, before the front door to 221B swings open and the British government himself appears at the top of the staircase. John stares at him in shock, and the man scowls in a manner very much like his brother, before picking up his umbrella, brushing his jacket down, and hoping down the stairs and out onto the street.

***

It’s the logical thing to do, Mycroft tells himself, as he’s herded into a dark alley by a man (a _boy_ , he can’t be much older than Mycroft himself) with dark clothing on and enough coke in his veins to keep his pupils dilated. To fight would be dangerous. The man is armed. He could _kill_ Mycroft. The knife, previously pointed at his back, is instead shifted to shakily hover under Mycroft’s chin and hot (garlic scented) breath hits him in the nose. The politics student winces involuntarily and the thug barks and laugh and brings his knee up to effectively pin Mycroft to the wall, their figures hidden just behind a large green bin.

It starts to rain, the droplets unrelenting and shocking cold as they slide down the back of Mycroft’s collar and trace down his spine. Briefly, he wishes he had remembered to bring an umbrella, before a calloused hand fists into his short hair and tugs hard enough to force unwarranted tears.

“Stop thinkin’,” his attacker hisses, “I can hear you _thinking_ and if it aint about me it aint worth thinkn’, a’ight?”

Something hard rubs against Mycroft’s thigh and it’s as if all of a sudden things click into place. Briefly, his mind flickers to his little brother and his irritating habit for picking fights, before his mind usefully supplies some tricks a trainee-politician from Sussex shouldn’t really know.

His fist smacks into the other man’s stomach and his elbow quickly bloodies his nose.

***

John’s inside the flat in no time, shaking his damp coat off and hanging it over the radiator while searching with half an eye and half an ear for his flatmate. Eventually, he makes his way into the kitchen and is greeted by the site of half a coffee and walnut cake, several smashed plates, and an incredibly pale Sherlock Holmes.

“What was all that about?” he asks, and Sherlock’s eyes fall shut as if in pain.

“ _John_.” he whimpers, and the army doctor steps forward.

“I’m here.”

***

Mycroft has always been weak, his eating habits almost as bad as Sherlock’s. The fist to the stomach effectively winds his attacker, and the bloodied nose causes him to curse, but his knee doesn’t shift one bit, and his blade is put to short use as a small but deep line is pressed into Mycroft’s cheek. The older Holmes whimpers and rain splashes on his face.

He wishes for his umbrella, perched uselessly by his bedside table.

He’d love to see the hooded man lying on the floor with blood oozing out of his head and a broken umbrella lying next to his fractured skull.

“Fuckin’ hell.” The criminal spits, grabbing a flailing arm and effortlessly pinning it to the brick wall where Mycroft quickly scratches it red raw, “Calm down, at least we both know I’m your type, pretty boy.”

Mycroft sucks in a breath and tries to ignore the man. Tries to focus on hooking his ankle round the man’s leg and pulling him –

“Focus on _me_!” the criminal growls, before pulling Mycroft roughly by the shoulders and spinning him so his nose is pressed against the wall.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, his fingers stumbling over the student’s fly before flicking the button open and pulling the zip down.

Mycroft’s trousers hit the floor.

Cool droplets of rain run down his legs as hot fingers trail up them.

***

Tea is made, and two slices of coffee cake are placed on clean plates and put before each man. Neither picks up their fork, but Sherlock’s fingers curl tightly around the warm cup and his eyes stay fixed on the tendrils of steam crawling up towards his nostrils. He breaths in deeply, and then pushes out a small huff of air and places his mug on the burnt table.

“When my brother was nineteen, he was attacked.”

John’s spoon rattles loudly against the tea plate and he quickly drops it, instead folding his hands over the table. He stares resolutely at his finger nails and Sherlock starts again.

“My brother, when he was nineteen, was assaulted. Sexually. He was. Raped.” He pulls in a shaky breath and lets it out as if it were poisoning his lungs, “When my brother was nineteen he was raped. And I’m sorry but I’ve never told anyone this before.”

The rushed statement takes a moment to sink in and John frowns, looking up to the detective in surprise, “No one? Never?”

Sherlock shakes his head, a jerky, pained, movement.

“What about Mycroft?”

Sherlock’s fingers curl around his cup again and he takes a small sip, before scowling as if it offends him. “He told me.”

The maths is simple; “You were twelve.”

“I notice things.”

“Fuck.”

***

It’s over in two minutes. Roughly. Mycroft tries to count the seconds, tries to do anything. He gets to one hundred and twelve but he’s not sure he trusts himself right now.

The man pulls out, and straightens his clothes. He picks up his knife and slides it back into his jeans pockets, before quietly exiting the alley.

The politics student hastily re-dresses himself before curling into a ball and hiding in the pile of rubbish spilling out of the over-sized city council bin. He’s soaked through and shivering.

Hours later, when he limps home in the slightly less gloomy morning light, he wishes he had his umbrella to lean on.

***

“I always thought Mother would see it, but she’s always been dotty and Mycroft was so determined to hide everything. I wouldn’t have noticed at all if he hadn’t been forced to look after me when she was out.” Sherlock pause and licks his lips, his voice sounding strange and childish when he carries on, “It was the little things. Like the cakes – the weight gain – and the sudden obsession with always being on time, always knowing where he was. He’d get taxis everywhere, as if walking was suddenly out of the question. Mummy couldn’t pay for his new habit so he got a job: He was busy. All of the time. When he did sleep, _if_ he did sleep, he’d always wake up seeming more tired than he had the night before.

“He was trying to distract himself – ignore what had happened. And when it did catch up with him, he’d try desperately to hide away from it. It was so obvious. But I had to be sure. So one day… I asked him. I asked him and he gave me this look – like he’d just realised I wasn’t stupid. Like he was so devastated to have forgotten I was clever. And he went to leave, but I wouldn’t let him, and his face went all red, which at the time I thought was sort of funny, and his palms were sweaty when he tried to push me away.” The detective, the child, pauses for a breath. It’s quiet, shallow, and his lips purse before he speaks again. “He ended up on the floor, breathing too quickly and covering his face with his hands. He said he had to get out – which I had gathered by this point – but it was dark and he’d seemed so frightened of the dark lately. He started babbling about the rain and Bartitsu – a Victorian fighting technique using umbrellas and coats I had been interested in at the time – and I didn’t know what to do.

“So I,

“Well,

“I had this umbrella. Childish. When you opened it up it had stars all on the inside, so even if it was dark at night you could look up and see the stars. I offered it to him, said that if it was raining he wouldn’t have to worry and that I could teach him some Bartitsu if he wanted.

“He said he’d like that very much and left shortly afterwards. I didn’t see him for a few weeks after that. When he did eventually turn up, he gave me back the umbrella, and said he wanted to tell me something but didn’t want anyone else to know.

“I let him tell me. And at the time I don’t think I quite… It never really registered that the Mycroft I had known up until that point was now dead. At least, he was gone. But he was. And I didn’t… I was thirteen by this point. And I didn’t know how to fix it; I’ve never been much good at fixing things. But I knew how to cope. I was always very good at coping. So we coped. And we do. That’s what we do. We… We cope.”

John’s lips are dry and his tongue feels like a sponge as he runs it along the cracked lines his incisors have left. He reaches a hand to run through his hair before freezing and letting it drop. He wants to say something. To ask about the umbrella; even though now he supposes he already knows. His tea is cold and too sweet when he takes a sip of it. The clock ticks on unrelentingly in the background.

“To cope,” he eventually says, “Is to ‘deal successfully’. That’s what it says. In the dictionary. To cope, or to ‘deal successfully’.”

Sherlock laughs and squeezes his eyes shut, “Survive, then. We survive.”

***

When Mycroft finally makes it back to his student housing he all but crawls into his bedroom. He shuts the door and climbs under the covers and he screams. He screams and he screams and he keeps screaming until his voice gives out. And then he sobs. And weird sounds form in his throat and his lungs hurt from pulling in salty breaths, he feels as if he’s drowning. He wishes for the stars at home in Sussex, and he wishes for his family, his little brother, and mostly he wishes he’d taken his umbrella. Because now his wet shoes are leaving marks on his bedding and he doesn’t own any spares.

When he wakes up the following afternoon he has a shower. He stays under the water until his skin is burning red and then he stays a little longer, as the water turns cold and he starts to shiver.

He misses class for the rest of the week.

He thinks he’ll visit Mummy in Sussex.

It’s all rather necessary, now.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading.


End file.
